my hummingbird-like attention span is a huge asset when i am writing, because anything that i am writing will have to be more interesting than the entire internet, my entire bookshelf, my guitar, my anime collection, and whatever mysterious things my sister’s cats are eating.
i think my total lack of discipline is one of my great strengths as an author.
this update was way more fun than finishing the laundry or vacuuming the floor, packing, and all the other responsible things you’re supposed to do the day before you leave town.
i hope the cats like my dad. he’ll be coming by to take care of them while i’m away. also, i bet he might dip into my stash of Schwrazwald Kirschwasser… and, he’s welcome to it.
and, just a reminder, i’m going to world fantasy convention this weekend, and ’twill be unlikely that i shall bother to update this blog while i’m having way more fun than you with some of the coolest, most interesting people on the planet.
I’m in Issue #4, and the newly live Issue #7.
I’m going to be off-line a bit.
I’m leaving Benbrook for World Fantasy Convention Wednesday night. I’m not even close to packed or prepared. I’ve got to get all the bad little ducks in a row for a bit.
I’ll be back in a week.
While I’m away, I recommend reading award-winning poet Christopher Bakken’s blog.
He was one of my undergrad writing profs and he’s done all right for himself since.
i saw these signs while wandering around yesterday, and i had my hands on the steering wheel so i couldn’t take a picture.
‘fallow deer 4 sale’ – handwritten on white cardboard in blood red ink, out in hunter country where the only reason the deer cadavers don’t litter the roads beside broken fenders is because the hunters emerge every autumn to pepper the bushes with buckshot and line their homes with dead body parts. ‘fallow’ refers to how a field is left barren, unfertilized, and un-agriulturated. how odd to sell deer for the express purpose of raising them on a farm and calling them ‘fallow’.
on another country road in a country town, a big yellow warning sign – the kind usually reserved for a silhouette of a deer or pedestrians crossing – six letters gave a strange warning. “C H U R C H”. apparently, out here, the churches might sneak into the roads and cause accidents. i guess they’re trying to hurry along the little disasters that turn a heart to the Almighty. Broken cars, and broken bones, and then the victim prays for salvation.
on a major highway, in the fallow little spot of city, there was an empty sign above an abandoned gas station. the high pole loomed high above all the other signs around, but there wasn’t even the ghost of the panel where the company name used to be. white metal outlined an empty space where a white cross like a windowpane held the shape. i stared at it as long as i could, but i didn’t see what was on the other side of the window if it wasn’t just the sky.
look up, what do you see? a white cross framed in daylight. a fallow spot for sale, and a holy sign.
i have a party to go to tonight, and i picked up some vampire fangs that attach to the teeth with this kind of putty.
i look awesomely vampiric with my tousled hair and hip, urban bohemian attire.
however, i am deeply concerned that this putty flavor in my mouth will not match the big bottle of Valpolicella i have purchased for the occasion.
vampires, after all, must drink red wine at parties.
still, the teeth seem to be staying in place, and they seem not to be too much in the way, and the box assures me I can take them out to eat and pop them right back in.
remember when halloween technology was merely wax lips and latex masks?
i was browsing the aisles of the walgreens and noticing all kinds of awesome things i couldn’t afford.
(and, alas, the very moment i type up these words, the fangs fall out! they didn’t last one hour. halloween tech may have evolved in many ways but in this it has remained the same: cheap plastic items never last the night!
i shall go merely as a bohemian author. which is a very simple costume for me, indeed.)
a little story of mine from not too long ago just got picked up by the horror podcasters at Pseudopod.
want to hear “I Am Nature” (from Issue #4 of Dark Recesses) read aloud on a podcast?
sure ya do. that will totally freak you out.
I’ll post a bulletin when the podcast is posted to their site.
massimo has been spending too much time with the electronic devices. i suspect he has become addicted to the radiation fields back there, where the ghosts of the wires mingle with the ghosts of the dvds and cds.
everything is haunted, you know. didn’t you know that?
for centuries and centuries and centuries, bodies have been buried in the ground – everywhere – be they bug or bird or babe or deer or dad or dove. the earth runs rich with souls, and ghosts.
our houses are full of dead tree souls. our wires burn the souls of the tiny sea creatures that smashed to oil and noxious fumes. everywhere we look, there’s a ghost.
cats – magical creatures – are more capable at seeing the ghosts and pulling on their energies.
when humans make great art, bits and pieces of our soul fall into the ethereal energies of the thing. artists are the people with too much soul. we slough it off to fill in the gaps where others are missing theirs.
in between all the energy fields, of the wires and the artist souls, massimo does not need to run the television to watch the shows and listen to the cds.
he seems partial to regina spektor and cowboy bebop. who isn’t?
if you have a cat in the house, you also have a giant box of turds in your house. they sit there, being gross, disgusting turds.
and you don’t want to clean them.
some people dump their turds everyday. i am not one of those people because i can’t really imagine a daily routine that involves a giant box of turds. i do it once a week. and it is gross.
it is a horrible, gross thing to have a giant box of turds.
and i put off the cleaning of the giant box of turds for just one moment because i do need to update my blog today, and i have to now go do something about that giant box of turds.
because i am done with my entry.
stopping to clean turdbox.
like seriously, dude, i am going to get up and clean that box of turds right on out of my apartment. buh-bye turds.
right frikkin’ now.
okay, i’m really leaving this time.
wish me luck.
in the windy dark of the first cold front of the season, trees shake off their old shadows and throw them into the night black like releasing black paper in a storm.
spiderwebs do not connect to the tree branches, or the leaves. this is purely an illusion. wicked spiders connect their dangerous webs to the shadows of the tree. the mystical properties of spidersilk – long used in alchemy – are quite clear on the way they can bind across the planar spheres.
the spider, when it captures her prey, drags the soul and fluids into a new dimension only tenuously connected to our own.
ah, but that wind of winter comes and trees shake off their shadows and spiders fly with the shadows into the night air. they shape their webs into parachutes to ride the shadows and the winds in the night.
look up, the next time you’re walking in the dark below a streetlight. you’ll see that flickering strand of gossamer, and the looping bowls fashioned by a single thread. you’ll see the tiny acorn at the bottom, like a demon’s earring, like a halloween tree ornament, like a terror in the sky.
terror of the night sky, torn from the blowing shadows, tears through the winds to the new trees that will collect old shadows in their bare branches like wet paper bags clutched in sewer bars.
then new webs, and new death.
burly yellow mottled black brown red hairy dogs
covered in dust and old pizza sauce
sleep in the vacant lots like coyotes
and i grow pawprints in my garden
i have a red brick fence
two orange trees that never sprout oranges
evergreen hedges that are usually brown
also, tomato plants and rose bushes wane by my air conditioner
where i kneel each week over dirt and weeds
and paw prints are all I grow
i don’t know how the dogs get in my yard
i have to keep my trash in an air lock
i keep my small children inside after dark
my husband walks the fence and positions
stones in the crevices like chess pieces
when i can’t sleep, i sit in the window box
stare into my dark garden,
wait for the dogs to show themselves
i never see them
when i’m driving home from work
i see those vagrants walking somewhere
they don’t look me in the eye
they must be angry at all of us humans
ruining their territory with stones and gardens
they don’t seem to know what to do about us.
my family, we’ll adopt our own growling sentinel
we’ll plant his little house near the garden
he’ll sleep in the laundry room on dirty clothes
he’ll jump through a floppy dog door to piss his turf
he’ll piss off my neighbors with his shouts
when he dies, we’ll bury him under an orange tree
he’ll haunt my children’s memories with blurry
photographs of fur bolting away like a dream warrior
i’ll name him like a man.